Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Where Writers Write is a weekly series that will feature a different author every Wednesday as they showcase their writing spaces using short form essay, photos, and/or video. As a lover of books and all of the hard work that goes into creating them, I thought it would be fun to see where the authors roll up their sleeves and make the magic happen.

This is Jennifer Tseng.

Jennifer is an
award-winning poet and fiction writer. Her previous books include No so
dear Jenny (Bateau Press) and Mayumi and the Sea of Happiness(Europa
Editions). She teaches for the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, FAWC’s
online writing program 24PearlSt, and the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of
Creative Writing.

Where Jennifer Tseng Writes

Like many writers, I have a deep
appreciation for Virginia Woolf’s notion of “a room of one’s own”and
I have lived my life in search of one. As soon as we moved into our 3rd floor
apartment, it was clear that this Woolfian luxury would not be mine in the
traditional sense, so I set out to find a way to create a nontraditional room
for myself. I experimented with a series of makeshift arrangements in various
corners of the apartment until finally settling on the living room window seat.
It’s
about two to three feet off the ground and long enough for me to lie down in.
No one can just walk in; if someone wants to enter they have to climb up. It’s tree like and full of light.

When I climb into the window seat and
close the curtain that separates it from the living area, it becomes a small
room. I have treated it as such, hanging favorite pictures on its narrow walls,
adding a little lamp I got at a garage sale, a wooden box that serves as a tiny
table, a row of library books, a basket containing my manuscripts-in-progress,
a seat cushion. I have covered the “floor”with
rugs and quilts. Having curtains in every direction makes the space feel like a
tent. Being so high up, jutting out past the apartment proper, I feel like I’m in a treehouse. From here, I can see
the sky, trees, a church, the train, other apartments. I can see people on the
street but they can’t
see me. (I’ve checked.) Early in the morning, when it’s quiet, I can hear entire
conversations being spoken on the ground below. From here, I can see without
being seen, hear without being heard. It’s a perfect place for a writer.

Every morning at about 4:30, I go
directly to my “room”and write with a pencil on loose
sheets of typing paper or, if I happen to have one, in a notebook. Once the
rest of the apartment is awake, I go to an ergonomically friendly stand-up
station that I built in a slim, doorless closet, and type up my draft. Then I
go back to the living room, print the draft, climb into my room and reread.

On
rare occasions, I open the curtains and find our cat Didi sitting in my place.
More often, he waits for me to wake up, then climbs in after me, sits on my lap
or curls up next to me. When it’s cold, he wraps himself like a genie around the lamp. I
imagine house cats long to find their own trees in much the same way we writers
long for our own rooms. So the two of us find ourselves in the window seat,
imagining one thing is another, keeping each other company in the leafy light.

Monday, August 7, 2017

Bored with the same old fashioned author interviews you see all around the blogosphere? Well, TNBBC's got a fun, literary spin on the ole Would You Rather game. Get to know the authors we love to read in ways no other interviewer has. I've asked them to pick sides against the same 20 odd bookish scenarios.

Zach Boddicker's

Would You Rather

Would you rather write an entire book with your feet or
with your tongue?

Feet. Writing a book with one's tongue conjures up repressed
images of Gene Simmons and his man-bun, and that would prove to be too much
strain. Dry-mouth, cramping, swelling – that sounds horrible.

Would you rather have one giant bestseller or a long
string of moderate sellers?

I'd take the long string of moderate sellers. That at least
implies that I'd be around long enough to produce such a string.

Would you rather be a well known author now or be
considered a literary genius after you’re dead?

A reclusive, well-known author now – considering the thin
possibility I'll be reincarnated as a literary genius with no ambition, due to
a paperwork error or computer glitch.

Would you rather write a book without using conjunctions
or have every sentence of your book begin with one?

I don't think I could go without conjunctions, so I'd have
to begin every sentence with one.

Would you rather have every word of your favorite novel
tattooed on your skin or always playing as an audio in the background for the
rest of your life?

I'd go with the tattoo. An engineer at Intel or some other
microprocessor manufacturer could probably fit 75,000 words onto a pretty small
patch of skin.The background audio option – way too many risks there.
Who would do the narration? Fran Drescher? Truman Capote? Walter Brennan? This
world is an unfair place, and these voices would be among my options, I'm
afraid.

Would you rather write a book you truly believe in and
have no one read it or write a crappy book that comprises everything you
believe in and have it become an overnight success?

Now that I've done the former, I'd be happy to write a
crappy book that compromises everything I believe in. It could be a useful
exercise that might lead to tremendous personal and spiritual growth. But, then
to know that thousands of people were duped into reading it would probably
cancel out much of that growth.

Would you rather write a plot twist you hated or write a
character you hated?

The hated plot twist would be easier to deal with. If I were
being coerced by an editor or agent into writing a plot twist that sucked, it
would be my first instinct to ask myself “how can I make this suck differently,
or suck even worse?” If I were able to come up with something that sucked
worse, I'd at least be able to take some ownership of it. Writing a character
you hate seems like self-flagellation, considering all the time you spend
writing them.

Would you rather become a character in your novel or have
your characters escape the page and reenact the novel in real life?

I'd much prefer that the characters in The Essential Carl
Mahogany escape the book and reenact the novel. Though, if that were to
happen, and I were there to observe it, I wonder if I'd be thinking man, the
book was way better than this bullshit!

Would you rather write without using punctuation and
capitalization or without using words that contained the letter E?

If not alive right now, there will be someone who, for
whatever reason, cannot use words that contain the letter E. Let that person
develop his or her talent.

Would you rather have schools teach your book or ban your
book?

I would prefer TECM be taught, especially to students
in rural areas. Banned books are a thing of the past, at least in the Western
world.

Would you rather be forced to listen to Ayn Rand bloviate
for an hour or be hit on by an angry Dylan Thomas?

I'll take my chances with Dylan Thomas. At least there's
some chance of dialogue with him, and possibly cooling him down enough to where
we could head back to my place and listen to Rush's 2112 on cassette.

Would you rather be reduced to speaking only in haiku or
be capable of only writing in haiku?

Speaking only in haiku wouldn't be so bad.

Would you rather be stuck on an island with only the 50
Shades Series or a series in a language you couldn’t read?

Give me the 50 Shades series. I can cut and paste with that.

Would you rather critics rip your book apart publicly or
never talk about it at all?

I would love it if critics ripped my book apart. All are
welcome and bring a guest!

Would you rather have everything you think automatically
appear on your Twitter feed or have a voice in your head narrate your every
move?

The Twitter feed option would probably be best. The vast
majority of everything I think is so boring that no one would pay attention.

Would you rather write an entire novel standing on your
tippy-toes or laying down flat on your back?

Flat on my back please! I need the rest.

Would you rather read naked in front of a packed room or
have no one show up to your reading?

Reading naked in front of a packed room would be ok. There'd
be opportunities to conduct some fun experiments and ask some awkward questions
of the audience.

Would you rather read a
book that is written poorly but has an excellent story, or read one with weak
content but is written well?

I would probably last longer
with the poorly written, but excellent story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zach Boddicker grew up living the country life north of Laporte,
Colorado. Boddicker holds a B.A. in English
and a MFA in Fiction from Colorado State University, which have proven useful
for his endeavors into publishing. In 2014, his short story “Equipment” was
published in “A Decade of Country Hits: Art on the Rural Frontier” (Jap Sam Books / M12 Studio). His
first book “The
Essential Carl Mahogany” (2017), which has been deemed evocative of
Nick Hornby, Hunter S. Thompson and Don DeLillo, is the first novel to be
published by M12 Studio / Last Chance Press.

In addition to his work as an author, Boddicker has been a staple of the Roots
Music scene along the Front Range for 20 years as a member of 4H Royalty,
Cowboy Dave
Band, Drag the River, and many others. He currently resides in
Denver with his wife and two daughters.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Disclaimer: The Page 69 Test is not mine. It has been around since 2007, asking authors to compare page 69 against the meat of the actual story it is a part of. I loved the whole idea of it and so I'm stealing it specifically to showcase small press titles - novels, novellas, short story collections, the works! So until the founder of The Page 69 Test calls a cease and desist, let's do this thing....

The unnamed narrator of “Songs From Richmond Avenue”; a woman he
has a crush on, Michelle; her stripper roommate, Honey; and his former
co-worker at a Houston newspaper, Jonesy, arrive at a grocery store late at
night after drinking in a bar. Because he’s vomited on his shirt and can barely
walk, Jonesy stays in the car, while the others go in to shop. Jonesy, wearing
a huge pink smock Michelle found in the trunk to replace his shirt, gets out of
the car briefly and is accosted by a pickup truck full of drunken yokels who
had driven by earlier and liked the looks of Honey; Honey returned to the car just
ahead of the other two. Page 69 picks up with the narrator and Michelle back at
the car.

What’s the
book about?

It’s about a guy of questionable work ethic, the narrator, who has settled for a
life that involves spending a lot of time in a bar that’s frequented by
gamblers and other low-end types. He undergoes something of an epiphany following
a bus stop encounter with Michelle, a woman he declares has “skin so perfect I
doubted she even had pores.” He wonders if she could provide some sort of redemption
– at least give him a reason to shoot for something a little better. Maybe she can,
but not until he
deals with Michelle’s baseball bat-wielding former boyfriend, a paramilitary Buddhist barfly
and the suspicious death of a friend, who fancied himself the
father of Brute Generation poetry.
That the narrator is drunk almost the whole time also complicates matters.

Do you think this page gives our readers an accurate sense of
what the book is about? Does it align itself with the book’s overall theme?

I would say it does, for the most
part: The tone is somewhere in the middle on this page, not super-intense like
the book occasionally gets, but there is a fair amount of weirdness taking
place. Alcohol is central to the situation the characters find themselves in, obviously,
but it would be a rare page where that was not the case.

The narrator and Michelle are the two
central characters, so it’s good they are both prominent on Page 69. Honey is
in a fair amount of the story and Jonesy is a pivotal though not major
character, so that fits in nicely, too.

Obviously, it’s unlikely one page of
any book will reveal much of its plot line, but, overall, Page 69 is a fair
representation of “Songs From Richmond Avenue.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PAGE 69

SONGS FROM RICHMOND AVENUE

I looked in the passenger’s seat and saw Jonesy sound asleep and wearing what now appeared to be a tattered, pink blouse. It wasn’t hard to picture him standing in the parking lot looking like a massive transsexual, complete with well-defined cleavage. I couldn’t even imagine the conversation that had preceded the altercation, which we were told, ended abruptly when Honey produced a can of pepper spray and a lighter shaped like a derringer.

“I started to call the cops even after they left, but you know, I guess it was kind

of funny,” Honey said, checking her nails for damage.

“How can you say it’s funny?” Michelle said. “What about his feeling?”

“He did seem pretty sensitive about all that hair on his back,” Honey said. “He

kept trying to cover up, even after they left when it was just the two us. I think he might like me. Maybe I shouldn’t have flirted with him so much.”

Jonesy’s body had become something of a breeding ground for unwanted hair

in recent years. I seemed to recall him lamenting that fact once during an outing to Stewart Beach, where he wore a lightweight football jersey in hundred-degree heat, even in the water. Come to think of it, even his nose hair tended to be the long, flowing variety when left unattended.

“Look, it is a little funny,” I said. “Besides, he won’t remember any of this in the

morning.”

Michelle looked at me. This time she wasn’t smiling.

“You two,” she said, shaking her head and walking toward the Cadillac. “I sure

know how to pick ’em.”

In hindsight, the whole escapade made little sense, even as such escapades go.

Half the city ran around shirtless eight months out of the year, anyway. For that matter, most women who could pull it off were wearing the equivalent of Band-Aids at that very moment and calling them tops. A smock was unnecessary as long as Jonesy stayed out of the store, and a pink smock was unnecessary at any time. Of course, there was the whole back-hair issue and the highly unusual involvement of women in our antics to consider this time, I suppose.

Hell, if back hair bugged him that much, Jonesy should have pulled me aside and said something. I could have put up with him wearing his smelly shirt until I dropped him off at home. Then Michelle and I could have taken his car to another bar or two, maybe even run down to Galveston really fast. That’s the kind of things friends do for friends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael Reed is a Texas journalist,
meaning he lives in inexpensive apartments and drives paid-for used cars. He
does not have a wife or children, which is probably best for all concerned, and
has never owned a washer or drier, something he takes great pride in. This is
the Southern Illinois University graduate’s first novel.

Melanie: You look at the cover of My Hero and see a sketch of someone, like Superman. So, you’ve got some expectations for this comic book going in. But it’s all words. Like, not just speech bubbles, but words describing what a picture should be instead of a picture. I thought this could go someplace interesting -- form matching content. What was your first impression?

Nick: I glanced at the cover but did not notice that the crosshatching on the figure was the names of superheroes written in small text. Immediately, I noticed that the pages are framed in the type of template that comic artists tend to draft panels in, that being a box with spaces to mark which issue, page, frame, etc. Once you got in, were you able to pick up the story?

Melanie: Ha, no, not at all. I couldn’t tell who the speaker was. I could tell there was a plotline about kids wanting to create a superhero comic together, but the character names come about randomly, so it was hard to piece together a story. I ended up getting frustrated and stopping about one-third through to see what else was in My Hero. I saw there were some color images . . . I kept going and found at the end of the book Stephen Graham Jones’s explanation of how this book came about, how he had a bunch of time off and was going to focus on a werewolf book (I assume the now-published Mongrels), but couldn’t let go of the idea of a comic book after he bought some drawing paper while in the craft section of a store with his daughter. I like the idea he had: one time when it flooded in Texas during his son’s Boy Scout camping trip, Jones backed his truck through the camp to rescue his son’s tent gear. He now realizes that he could have killed anyone’s kid in a very stupid moment. But was that what the comic book My Hero was about?

Nick: I don’t think it was about anything. This seems more like an idea-sketch that isn’t meant to represent a coherent narrative as much as it is supposed to be an opportunity to play with the form. I end up thinking back to Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics in which he breaks down the rules of comics and explores how they work. McCloud discusses the continuum between the word and the picture, so my first thoughts were trying to place this book somewhere between a conventional novel and a graphic novel. There are odd examples somewhere in the middle like Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves that start from the novel end of the spectrum and use creative typesetting, font choices, and story breaks to add a visual element. I have also seen webcomics, such as Erfworld, that alternate between graphic novel and pages of text that may include an illustration. Between examples starting from either end of the continuum, I think Stephen Graham Jones was trying to sit somewhere in the middle and scratch a creative itch more than tell a story. What were some of the details that stuck out to you?

Melanie: I just kept thinking about the kids in the tent in the backyard, holding flashlights and getting amped about the comic they would write. Why didn’t they write a comic about a superhero who accidentally hurts a kid instead of saves him? We’d get meta-comic book action! And Jones would get his story about the truck. But in the end text, Jones says that he is the narrator and also the man with the truck? I guess there aren’t enough indicators in the first part of the comic to help me get something out of My Hero. I want to say that Jones’s work reminds me of Gertrude Stein, who, when asked why she didn’t write the way people read, answered, “Why don’t you read the way I write?” Jones could fall into that camp . . . except he doesn’t when he goes about explaining himself so much in an endnote. Every book of his I’ve read has been explained either in the book or an interview. And all I can think about is the end of a fiction workshop. The writer has been quiet, the students have talked over his story, and then the writer explains what he meant to do . . . and the students all get excited about the writer’s ideas, forgetting the ideas aren’t even in the story. I also have no idea what the drawings without words, which is like a separate comic book afterward, are about.

Nick: There’s a comic-story layer and a story-about-the-comic-the-kids-are-writing layer, and their superhero, Doby, gets pulled from one layer to the other. It looked like people from the comic-story layer think Doby’s dead and the pages with art are of the funeral. An interesting element of this book is that you’re asked to imagine all of the visuals, but the book then goes ahead and fills you in on what the kids’ comic book characters really look like. Totally in line with your point about Jones needing to go back and explain his story. I did notice a couple of things in the book that might be references. At the funeral, a girl’s boots remind me of the Infinity Gauntlet, which will be familiar to fans of Marvel comics. The number #52 was scribbled in a couple of places, which could be a reference to a DC comics series called “52” that came after a mini-series called “Infinite Crisis” which was a sequel to “Crisis on Infinite Earths.” The point of these books was to unravel decades of messy backstories, crossovers, and side plots put together by hundreds of DC comic writers across all the different superhero series. Appropriate to reference in a book that seems to be trying to conjure a sense of deep backstory for characters we only meet briefly. The framing device seems to be the star of the show here, the comic artists’ template complete with coffee stains and such. It was interesting to see the thought process of Jones trying to figure out how to fill the space on the page with words, but do you think it carried the book?

Melanie: I loved the concept, but found no story and then was further confused when Jones wrote what My Hero was supposed to be about . . . of which I saw no traces. I would guess the audience is graduate students in an experimental fiction class. Plus, it’s a hardcover book, which limits the audience further due to the cost. Why not publish it like a comic book?

Nick: I don’t think superhero fans will find much in this book, but it may be interesting if you are trying to approach comics from an academic perspective - especially if you’re a fan of Jones’ fiction. If you set aside the bits of plot and look to how Jones, as a novelist, works through the process of plotting out a superhero comic, you can sort’ve pick out where he’s was going with this book, but ultimately Jones all but admits this was a pile of notes published as a book by Hex Publishers, which seeks to promote genre comics from voices outside of the mainstream. But, I don’t think My Hero would find a publisher if it wasn’t carried by the name of the author.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Oh yes! We absolutely have a series on bathroom reading! So long as it's taking place behind the closed (or open, if that's the way you swing) bathroom door, we want to know what it is. It can be a book, the back of the shampoo bottle, the newspaper, or Twitter on your cell phone - whatever helps you pass the time...

Today, Kaitlin Solimine takes it to the toilet. She is the author of the
new novel Empire of Glass, which wascalled "bold
and luminous" by National Book Award finalist Sarah Shun-lien Bynum and
received a five star review in Foreword Reviews. Her
award-winning writing has been published in National Geographic News, The
Wall Street Journal, The Huffington Post, China Daily, Guernica Magazine, and
Kartika Review, among others. Her work focuses on travel, exploration,
expatriate culture, US-China relations, environmental issues, and motherhood.
She has lived around the world—from New England to China to Singapore to San
Francisco—and is co-founder of the academic media network Hippo Reads. She lives in San Francisco with her
husband and daughter. She was a 2016 SF Writers Grotto Fellow and is working on
her next novel while also associate producing the childbirth documentary, Of Woman Born.

Ode to a Poop

I labored on this toilet. So I can’t ignore the fact this porcelain
bowl has deep significance beyond defecating and urinating into it. This toilet
has received so much, and, at the same time, offered an equivalent amount of
serenity and support.

There’s been much written and elucidated about the
similarities between writing a book and giving birth. But I have never written a
book while sitting on the toilet. I nearly gave birth on this toilet (my
daughter was born an hour later on my bedroom floor in a planned home birth). I
guess that is a critical difference between the two—I don’t think I could ever
write on a toilet; the stench, the hard seat digging into one’s fleshy thighs,
is just not what I need to write. Thinking and reading—sure. But writing and
creating literary worlds don’t mesh with defecation for me (despite how both
can be arduous, painful, and yet deeply satisfying in the end).

But reading: yes! Toilets are lovely reading spots. And when
you have a noisy, curious toddler, bathrooms can be incredible places to seek
quiet and respite. I do a lot of thinking on the toilet, the waiting for the
bodily relief of what is hopefully to come (when it doesn’t arrive quickly),
and then luxuriating in the space post-poo, taking a few breaths, a needed
escape, before returning to the world. I also use the toilet to catch up on
reading that has otherwise fallen to the wayside. Before I had a child that
meant The New Yorker. But the stack
beside the toilet grew onerously high and only reminded me I was an entire year
behind in my reading—so I shamefully gave up my subscription because I couldn’t
bear to see that pile and be reminded how much reading I had yet to catch up
on. Now, motherhood consuming me, the books beside my toilet are entirely
parenthood related—Touchpoints by T.
Berry Brazelton, M.D., Diary of a Baby
by Daniel Stern, Mothering Your Nursing
Toddler by Norma Jane Bumgarner, La Leche League’s The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, and Buddhism for Mothers by Sarah Napthali.

These books seem quite practical, but imagine pooping and
reading Stern’s dreamy psychoanalytical lyricism describing the experience of
infancy: “Each moment has its own sequence of feelings-in-motion: a sudden
increase in interest; a rising, then a falling wave of hunger pain; an ebbing
of pleasure.” Or in Mothering Your
Nursing Toddler, “The difference between limits and control is an important
one, like the difference between a protective bubble and a straightjacket.”

What I love about what we read and do on the toilet (aside
from the obvious) is how, like the act of defecation, it speaks to some kind of
essentiality of our individual human experiences. For example, before I had
kids and was an aspiring writer (okay, I’m still the latter), I thought reading
The New Yorker would make me smarter,
be entertaining and enlightening. So that’s what I did on the toilet. At other
times, like in college, the toilet was where I read gossip magazines because it
was where I could do my “dirty business” (e.g., catch up on celebrity gossip or
articles on how to snag a husband in less than three dates). I don’t know why
shit and pop culture go so brilliantly together (okay, maybe that’s obvious)
but I suspect there’s always been a correlation throughout history. My husband
reads about politics on the toilet. Given recent political news, that
correlation couldn’t be more clear.

Yet perhaps we don’t give bathroom reading enough credit. Perhaps
it speaks to our most critical inner need at that moment. Like the need to
defecate, how we’d die of sepsis without doing so, maybe it fills a space of
both inane and mundane, echoing what it ultimately is: Ode to a Poop. As in how and where we give birth, bathroom reading
matters greatly, accompanies, and plays accomplice to, one of our most
necessary, most overlooked, most universal human acts.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Disclaimer: The Page 69 Test is not mine. It has been around since 2007, asking authors to compare page 69 against the meat of the actual story it is a part of. I loved the whole idea of it and so I'm stealing it specifically to showcase small press titles - novels, novellas, short story collections, the works! So until the founder of The Page 69 Test calls a cease and desist, let's do this thing....

In this installment of Page 69,

We put Jacob Appel's Coulrophobia &
Fata Morgana to the test!

Set up page 69 for us, what are we about to read?

This is the second page of the short story, Boundaries,
about two American border agents who are assignment to guard an obscure
Canadian border crossing on Christmas eve--only to find themselves confronting
unexpected cases of love and smallpox.

What’s the book about?

On the surface, this is a quirky short story collection
featuring a minister whose dead wife
is romantically involved with Greta Garbo, a landlord antagonized by a
rent-delinquent mime and a diplomat's wife who attempts to seduce her chimney
sweep through Norwegian lessons. Of course, at a deeper level, its a complex
cryptogram whose solution reveals both the Pentagon's nuclear codes and the
locations of El Dorado and Atlantis.

Do you think this page gives our readers an accurate
sense of what the book is about? Does it align itself with the book’s overall
theme?

No. This is the weakest page in the book by leaps and
bounds. My agent and editor, upon reading the initial draft, both said.
"We loved your book. It's a masterpiece to rival the best
writing of Shakespeare and Tolstoy. Pure genius. Except for page
69. What drivel! What sentimental bunk! What blasphemy and
obscenity! We both strongly recommend skipping straight from page 68 to
page 70." I didn't follow their advice, and here is the result....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PAGE 69

COULROPHOBIA & FATA MORGANA

Jimmy Durante accent. “Maybe it’s acute global cooling,”
he adds. “They say the Nineteenth Century Minimum came on without warning.”

I don’t know much about Little Ice Ages or Nineteenth
Century Minimums, but I’m willing to trust Artie’s opinion. He’s not only a
first-rate border agent, but he’s also the most talented art-glass blower in
Franklin County, as well as head docent at the local historical society, so he
knows more about most things at thirty-four than I know about anything at
forty-seven. If he told me we were actually slipping back into the nineteenth
century itself, I’d probably believe him. The truth is that, except for the
security cameras mounted on the eaves, our little colonial-style headquarters
has hardly changed since my French-Canadian grandparents migrated south. Last
year, Chief Crowley even found a sheet of unused three-cent stamps at the back
of her supply closet.

Artie offers this same praise every year—and every year
his words flush warmth through my cheeks like a pitcher of red wine. “Merry
Christmas, my dear heathen friend,” I say, grinning, raising my mug of fake
eggnog. “Bon appétit!”

“To the chef!” answers Artie. He taps his mug against
mine—gently, like Eskimos nuzzling noses. “To the Julia Child of the North!”

He’s not drunk, just enthusiastic. I wish I had one-tenth
of his energy. Even when I was thirty-four and happily married to Neal—or when
I thought I was happily married to Neal—I never loved life like Artie does. Not
with that much gusto. I suppose if I’d been born beautiful—externally
beautiful, like my sister, Valerie—I might have found

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jacob
M. Appel's first novel, The Man Who Wouldn't
Stand Up, won the Dundee International Book Award in 2012. His
short story collection, Scouting for the Reaper, won the 2012 Hudson
Prize and was published by Black Lawrence in November 2013. He is the
author of five other collections of short stories: The Magic Laundry, The Topless Widow of
Herkimer Street, Einstein's Beach House, Coulrophobia & Fata Morgana and Miracles and Conundrums of the Secondary Planets; an essay collection, Phoning Home; and another novel, The Biology of Luck. He practices
psychiatry in New York City. More at: www.jacobmappel.com

Monday, July 3, 2017

Every now and then I manage to talk a small press author into showing us a little skin... tattooed skin, that is. I know there are websites and books out there that have been-there-done-that already, but I hadn't seen one with a specific focus on the authors and publishers of the small press community. Whether it's the influence for their book, influenced by their book, or completely unrelated to the book, we get to hear the story behind their indie ink....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today's ink story comes from Lee L. Krecklow, who recently released his debut novel The Expanse Between.

"The
only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk,
mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never
yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow
roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle you
see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’”

It
took me until I was nearly 40 to get my first tattoo. I was never opposed to
the idea. I didn’t need to build up courage. But there was never an image, an
idea, a mark I thought I could carry forever and with which I could always
identify. Nothing seemed like it could last. But once I found it, I was ready.

The
typewriter, the classic machinery of writing, is permanently associated with the
craft. The image lasts. Much like vinyl for music, the tool was supplanted in
popularity by newer, more convenient machinery, but it lives on for those with
a deeper, more reverent understanding of the art. On my arm I wanted to see the
workings of the machine. The mechanics. The glint of the metal. I wanted to
hear it.

Kerouac wrote those words on an Underwood
typewriter, and I used the same type of machine as the template for my tattoo.
“On The Road” is one of the few books I’ve returned to over the years, finding
more in it on each passing. Not only does it work for me as literature, but
also as a blueprint for how I wish I could write. Here, burn, burn, burn is
less for me about the context of the full quote, but more of a reminder to work
as Kerouac did, by never leaving room for a yawn or for a commonplace word, but
to open up and explode and to leave anyone who might be generous enough to read
your work going, “Awww!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lee L. Krecklow is the author of the novel The Expanse
Between (2017, Winter Goose Publishing). He was the winner of the 2016
storySouth Million Writers Award, and has fiction appearing in Eclectica,
Oxford Magazine, Midwestern Gothic, The Tishman Review, Storychord and others.
Find more at leelkrecklow.com.

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Disclaimer: The Page 69 Test is not mine. It has been around since 2007, asking authors to compare page 69 against the meat of the actual story it is a part of. I loved the whole idea of it and so I'm stealing it specifically to showcase small press titles - novels, novellas, short story collections, the works! So until the founder of The Page 69 Test calls a cease and desist, let's do this thing....

This installment of The Page 69 Test is part of the Mind Virus Virtual Tour,

which runs from 6/25 - 7/10.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In this installment of Page 69,

We put Charles Kowalski's Mind Virus to the test.

Set up page 69 for us:

Robin Fox and his colleagues at the interagency HIG
(High-Value Detainee Interrogation Group) are questioning a terror suspect, called
“Harpo” because he hasn’t said a word since his arrest. Their polygraph team
has just given him the Silent Response Test, asking him questions and showing a
video meant to provoke strong emotional responses, while closely observing and
recording his vital signs and facial expressions.

What’s the book about?

Robin Fox, peace-loving professor of world religions, was
once a decorated military interrogator, but he found the Bronze Star on his
chest no compensation for the scar on his heart, and he has been striving ever
since to make amends for his complicity in war crimes. But when an unidentifiable
suspect tries to disperse a deadly virus in downtown Washington – the same one
used in an attack on American forces in Iraq that Fox foiled – Fox is
unwillingly drawn back into the shadowy world of intelligence.

Do you think this page gives our readers an accurate sense of what the book is about? Does it align itself with the book’s overall theme?

This is a turning point in the story, where the FBI and CIA
get their first major clue that the suspect may not be what they think he is.
When they show Harpo a back-alley YouTube clip making a mockery of Mohammed,
his reaction is very different from what they expect, as we see when the scene
continues:

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Fox asked.

“Maybe,” Kato said in a voice that sounded as mystified as
he felt. “That looks like Action Unit 12A, neutralized.”

“Which means?” asked Adler.

“A trace contraction, quickly suppressed, of the zygomaticus
major and risorius.”

“In English, please?”

“She said,” Fox translated, “that he was hiding a smile.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PAGE 69

MIND VIRUS

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Charles
Kowalski is almost as much a citizen of the world as his fictional character,
Robin Fox, having lived abroad for over 15 years, visited over 30 countries,
and studied over 10 languages. His unpublished debut novel, Mind Virus, won the Rocky Mountain
Fiction Writers’ Colorado Gold Award and was a finalist for the Adventure
Writers’ Competition, the Killer Nashville Claymore Award, and the Pacific
Northwest Writers’ Association literary award. Charles
currently divides his time between Japan, where he teaches English at a
university, and his family home in Maine.

Mind Virus is scheduled for publication by Literary
Wanderlust on July 1, 2017. Other novels and short stories by Charles Kowalski: “Let This Cup Pass From Me”, “Arise, My Love”, “The Evil I Do Not Mean To Do”.

Charles can be found at his website, and on Facebook and Twitter (@CharlesKowalski).

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I have been buried beneath small press and self-published review copies since 2009. My passion for supporting the small press and self publishing communities has driven me out into the world wide web to demonstrate alternative ways to spread the word about amazing publishers, authors, and novels you might never had heard of. Feeding your reading addiction, one book at a time.